Untilted
by Servant of the Night
Summary: Years after Harry Potter graduated form Hogwarts he still awakes in a cold sweat thinking of the last time he saw her. Work is bad and an offer stands with a mysterious organization willing to help him find her.


Chapter One

Disclaimer- I, Lizzard, do not own Harry Potter. I am not JK Rowling.If Iwere I would be filthy rich. I only own my Characters. They are cooler than you.

New Suspicions, Old Regrets

It was dark; Harry was running through the trees. Faster—he had to faster; there was something dreadfully important to him just beyond the dark trunks. Or someone...

He woke up with a jolt, his heart beating wildly, staring up at the white wooden canopy of his bed. His clothes felt damp; shaking himself off as though he were wet, he headed towards the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. By the time he was nestled back under the covers, however, he realized that he was no longer tired. Sighing, he turned over to take a look at the clock. It was 2:00 AM. He pushed himself out of bed again and pulled on a robe.

His mind began wandering as he entered the dark, cold kitchen. The climate was quite chilly for this time of year—it was nearing the end of august. It caused him a pang when he realized the new term at Hogwarts would be starting soon. A wave of nostalgia suddenly swept over him, taking hold of his midriff and creating a feeling of depression the likes of which he had nearly never felt before. He found himself thinking of, and

Hermione—how long had it been since he had last seen her? Over three years ago now, yet he could still picture her perfectly. Wavy brown hair tied loosely back with auburn highlights in the winter, dark eyes, a slim body...

Harry shook his head. What was happening to him? He opened the cupboard and took out the last box of cereal, vowing to go to the store tomorrow to pick up another twelve pack, though he knew he would forget. He thought about Hermione again, and a wave of sorrow and pleasure racked his body with spasms. He shuddered, suddenly feeling sick. The air seemed frigid, chilling him to the bone. Emotions were not luxuries he felt he was permitted to have these days.

He dumped his half empty bowl into the sink and started up the stairs, his mind drifting back to thoughts of Hermione, and the last time he had ever spoken to her...

"Harry," Hermione said. "Harry, can I tell you something?"

"Sure," he replied, heaving the remains of a loaf of bread into the still, dark waters of the near-frozen lake.

"Are you positive? Promise me you won't tell anybody."

Something about her voice made him shiver; the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He hugged his knees for warmth. "I won't, just tell me."

"Harry, somebody has been following me."

"What!" he sputtered, choking on his spiced lemons, his heart racing though he tried not to let it show.

"Stalking me! I keep thinking that there's a man hidden in the shadows, or crouching just behind a pillar, but whenever I turn around nobody's there."

"But, Hermione—"

"And I KNOW that they didn't just Disapparate, because I didn't hear a sound, Harry—not a sound. And you can't Disapparate or Apparate on these grounds anyway!"

"Hermione—" he argued, growing more apprehensive by the second and not liking it one bit.

"I'm scared, Harry. What if they come after me? What if—"

"HERMIONE! Please, just relax." He attempted to look for a logical explanation for his fears, but could think of nothing. "Look, you're almost finished with the N.E.W.T.s; you're nearly out of school, and you've got a job interview coming up. You're obviously tense. Now why don't you think logically?" Why don't I think logically, he thought.

"Couldn't this 'shadow' be a figment of your imagination? Perhaps a bird, or a—a small cloud, or something? Maybe it's just some joke some third year played; it could be a Specto Spell." That, at last he felt, was a fairly reasonable explanation for what was going on.

Hermione glared fiercely at him. "Harry, I am NOT hallucinating! I know what I saw! Can a small cloud or bird follow you inside, Harry?

Can it, hmm? And Specto spells are used for spying, not stalking, and are ALSO not permitted on the grounds, which you would know if you

EVER took my advice and just read Hogwarts, a History!"

Harry could not help feeling faintly amused that here it was, their last year at this school, and yet he had still neglected to read Hogwart's primary historical reference guide. A small chuckle escaped his lips. This, unfortunately, was immediately picked up on by Hermione. Her eyes narrowed and positively burned with hatred.

"You insensitive jerk! I thought YOU of all people would be concerned about what was happening, all those strange occurrences about the school and Lavender's owl and Dennis' accident in the forest. Remember the last time all this stuff started happening? Do you remember just who got hurt the most!"

Harry had been about to explain what he had meant when the full content of that sentence hit him like a steamroller. He winced, "Ouch.

Come on, Hermione. Take a few deep breaths." He saw her close her eyes and watched, though not without reason, her chest rise and fall heavily. "That's it. And tell me now; do you still believe that someone is following you?"

As she opened her eyes and realized where he was staring, Hermione's expression revealed exactly what she believed.

"Hmm...Let me think..."she replied softly, playing with the collar of her robes. "Of-of course." He swallowed noisily, neck growing hot and sweaty.

"Well...I mean the evidence for a stalker is simply so...persuasive."

She removed the colorful scarf Ron's mother had knitted slowly from her neck, letting it dangle for just a moment beneath her breasts, and then allowing it to drift gently towards the ground.

"Persuasive?" Harry licked his lips, attempting to inconspicuously wipe his palms on the inside of his jacket.

"Yes..." she sighed imploringly, "but I suppose if a tall, powerful wizard can believe it's nothing to worry about..." The folds of her robes shook apart, and Harry let out an involuntary gasp as she boldly shed the garment and stepped forward into his paralyzed arms.

"Yes...a—err—" he cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry,

"A wizard like...like..."

"A wizard"—one button down—"just"—her shirt was half open; he could see the fine black lace that fringed her bra—

"Like,"—she moved closer, dragging one slender leg upwards along his thigh so that it locked right around his waist—"you."

Their faces moved together, not quite touching. A sexy smile played upon her lips, only millimeters from his own. They looked so sensual, deeply red and scented with just the slightest hint of what smelled like cinnamon. His breathing was labored; her chest was pressed so tightly against his own, her leg wrapped tightly around his midriff. And her body felt so warm, so soft, so...inviting.

That shirt was held together by just one button, just one loop and one singular piece of circular plastic—

And the aching wishes he had held tightly within for so many years suddenly erupted; he was all over her, with lips pressing down hard on soft flesh and the gentle brush of fingers over silky fabrics, but something was horribly wrong, there was struggling; she was trying to get out... Hermione burst free from his grasp, a grimly satisfied look on her face.

"I thought as much," she rasped, gasping for air. "You arrogant, selfish, pig-headed—"

"Oi, wait a second here," he demanded, face turning from flushed pink to a shade of red that shamed the sun. "You came onto ME—what was that whole shirt-undoing act and—and that leg hook thing—"

"Oh come ON. I've tried that on twenty guys this year Harry: twenty.

And not ONE of them has acted so—"

"WELL MAYBE IT'S BECAUSE NONE OF THEM ACTUALLY CARED FOR YOU, ALL RIGHT!"

There was sudden silence as Harry stood there, horrified at what he had just voiced aloud.

"What did you say?" Hermione's voice was soft again, but not in that sexy seducing manner.

"Nothing," he muttered gruffly.

"No," she was speaking dangerously now, "I really think that was something. What did you say?—"

"NOTHING, ALL RIGHT!" he roared.

"What you just said was impor—"

"I don't care how important it was! Jesus, hasn't anyone ever said something nice to you before, you stupid whore? Because I'm not going to be the one to start!"

Harry was instantly sorry. He had never meant to call her that; it was in the heat of the moment; she had provoked him...

She looked confusedly at him, as though not entirely sure who he was anymore. Then sudden realization of what he'd just said flooded her eyes with unspoken emotion, followed by darkness so complete it gave him chills. Her pupils widened, then narrowed, and swallowed the bright light emitted by the surrounding snow whole.

"You know what, Harry? Fuck you. Fuck. You. I thought that you could—that you could help me...that you would finally believe me, after all those times and all those mistakes." She shook her head, laughing in disbelief. "But you know what? I guess I was wrong. I guess I was always wrong..."

"Hermione—" he extended his arm. All he needed was to touch her, and then it would be okay, everything would be okay...

"No, Harry," she said softly, tears flowing down her face as she staggered drunkenly backwards from his hand. "Not this time. This time it's over; it's done. Goodnight, Harry."

And with that she dove blindly into the thick snow surrounding them, a path opening up in front of her and sealing instantly in her wake. Harry attempted to follow her, but he did not have any charm able to cut through this ice; by the time he'd gotten up to her door she already had it locked.

He could hear soft sobs, muffled within layer after layer of thick feathery pillows. Nearly in tears himself, Harry leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, remembering her warm embrace and slipping silently down onto the cold hard stone in the light of the newly shining stars.

The next day, Hermione was not at breakfast. Nor lunch. She was missing from dinner as well, and while Ron was not concerned ("She's probably still up in her room studying for her bloody N.E.W.T.s."),

Harry grew worried. He asked Professor McGonagall if she had seen

Hermione, but her reply was the same as Ron's: "She's probably still upstairs cramming; you know how that girl is."

These answers, however, did not satisfy Harry. On the third day of

Hermione's absence he headed for the Gryffindor Status Board, searching frantically for Hermione's signature amidst the hundreds of pupils with last names beginning with 'G'. Finally, it caught his eye.

'Hermione Granger, 7th Year female ———— position not currently available."

Harry looked up in shock. The Board always knew where everybody was.

Even in the depths of Hogsmeade Suburbia it would record your state and location. Unless you went somewhere Unplottable...

The truth slammed into him like a tidal wave. Hermione had been right all along, and he'd just been too dense and blind with stubbornness to see it. But now it was too late...

She was gone.

Harry inhaled deeply, trying to keep his heart from falling into that abyss of emotion always seething just beneath the surface of his mind these days. He had tried to forget that night, tried to cover up his stupid mistake by hiring team after team of Aurors to search for her.

One by one they had all quit the job, and wouldn't return, no matter how much Harry offered to pay them. Until one day he awoke, and there was no one left to search for. They had never found her body.

It took quite a while for Harry to fall back to sleep.

When Harry finally awoke at 11:00 in the morning, he felt as though last night had been a mix of heavy drinking and a particularly fierce game of Spot the Plunker.

His head ached, his body was sore, and he did not recall the events that had occurred the previous night.

"Bloody hell," he groaned as he attempted to pry himself out from beneath the covers.

There was no way he could go to work today. He flopped back down onto the mattress, pulling the thick white comforter up to his chin. That cruel wave of depression enveloped him once more as he inhaled the sweet smell of his old school. The covers had been a graduation present from Ron's family; Molly had sewn the two sheets together and stuffed it with the softest Burwer feathers she could find (considering that the furry little creatures had nested several meters underground and were refusing to budge without the temptation of food).

He longed for the old days...or at least what few old days there were that did not involved some creature or person being emotionally or physically maimed, destroyed and/or broken.

Harry rolled over and stared at the wall. So what if he was fired? He hated his job: sitting in a stuffy old room filing papers and licking quills and sending little airplane memos zooming out of the office door day after day. Apathy filled his body completely, and he lay there in a stupor, not thinking of anything in particular, just feeling the general overall emotions which for the most part condoned misery.

It was at that moment that the phone rang.

At first he just stared at it. Which one of his friends in their right mind would actually call him on that useless machine? He only kept it around in case something important in the Muggle world should come up... He spun out of the covers and in one smooth, swift motion reached for the receiver and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello. May I please speak to Mr.—" there was a rustle of papers,

"—Harry Potter?" The voice was that of a young female, though it had a rather husky, low sound about it. As if perhaps she had disguised her voice with a voice-altering charm one too many times. Harry, however, breathed a sigh of relief. This individual was preferable to hearing

Hermione sobbing, in submission despite her defiance, on the other end. "This is he," he replied, curious.

"Ah, good, good, good." Her manner was brisk: crisp, sharp and to the point. "Listen, we were wondering about something—"

"And who exactly is 'we'?" inquired Harry, slightly shocked at the speed in which she had started talking business.

The woman seemed slightly perturbed at this question, as if she expected Harry to have heard of her many times before. "We, Mr. Potter, are a select group of Aurors." She spoke with the air of one very intelligent being attempting to explain the meaning of the universe to a three year old. "We, however, do not work for the Ministry. We find their limitations...less than satisfactory. No, I suppose you could call us an independent function. Much like the Muggle team which works in the UK. I assume you have heard of MI6?"

This instantly aroused Harry's interest. This concept sounded worth attending to. "I'm listening."

"Well, you see, our predicament is rather hard to explain. It has multiple levels to it...multiple motives," the woman paused for a moment; searching for the wording she lacked to explain 'their' current situation. "There have been many disappearances that have occurred recently, Mr. Potter. Strange disappearances, all being sudden and unexplainable."

"And you are telling me this why?" Harry queried, his voice dripping with disdain.

She laughed. It was a phony, forced chuckle that chilled Harry to the bone. "Mr. Potter, several of these people have been close to you. Very close, as it may seem."

"Who?" Harry asked his voice suddenly shaky. He already knew the answer.

"Hermione Granger, for instance?"

Harry froze. Images of Hermione crying, yelling at him, slamming the door in his face flickered by. He saw the message on the board:

'Status not currently available.' But how could these people know about all that?

"What about her?" he replied, trying to act casual.

"You finally might be able to understand what happened to her.

Finally avenge her death? We know you've been wondering why that...easel...could not find her location." She sounded nonchalant, as if informing people that she knew personal information about their thoughts and loved ones was something she did every day.

Hot, righteous anger flooded Harry's body. He had half a mind to curse her through the electric lines. "How do you know all this about me?" Suddenly he froze and went cold. This entire room seemed a trap, it was so simple...were there Specto Spells hidden in the folds of the wall? There, was the shadow in that corner just a little darker than it should have been?

A cold snicker echoed in his ears. Talk, he thought. Just keep her talking until you can get close enough to distinguish the spell's components. He laughed, trying to sound as aloof as possible. "That board couldn't tell me if there was a mountain troll three doors down.

Something about the spell work: they never could figure out what was wrong with it. Something—ah—some thing about the—err—privacy...meters," he finished lamely. "They kept hiding the...infor...ma...tion..." That was it—he had blown it. He had to make a move, fast, before she had time to disable the tracer components that always lingered around when charms of such personal proportions were cast far from their homes. In a single swift movement he mounted the large saggy armchair and snatched at the shadows just above the extinguished lamp.

He caught a handful of cobweb and dust.

There was a dead silence. Harry was fuming; his eyes could have burned a hole in the dark red wall. The woman spoke again, this time in a dangerously calm voice. "Mr., Potter, it would be in your good livelihood to continue this conversation (not to lie to me again?)."

Harry attempted to slam the phone down on the receiver. He wanted nothing more to do with these people. However, he soon found that an Immobillus curse had been placed on his arm. He could barely feel his fingers enough to hold on to the phone.

"Yes, Mr. Potter." She sounded quite pleased with herself. "We have 'charmed your arm', so to speak. Now listen carefully. We are offering you the chance to make 700 galleons a day. In return, you will investigate the various vanishings occurring in your area as of late. You will tell no one. You may choose, if you wish, one person to be your partner in these matters. Please understand that it might not always be wise to pick your closest friends. We will not deny that many have died in the carrying out of their missions. We wouldn't want any more of your loved ones to get hurt..." But the woman sounded as though she could care less what happened to Harry's friends.

"What about my old job?" Harry argued desperately. "I can't just resign—and people will talk if I stop coming to work."

He could practically hear her vampire like smile. "Do not worry about that, Mr. Potter. We'll take care of everything." Harry swallowed hard. "So, sir," her tone was mocking. "Do you agree?"

Harry steadied his hands, answering in a defiant tone. "And if I don't?"

A cold chuckle. "We have ways of making you agree."

Harry shivered violently. Somehow those seven short words managed to scare him more than eight encounters with the darkest Lord of the wizarding world. The late darkest Lord, that is. He started coughing, choking on the chilled early-morning air.

He started coughing, choking on the chilled early-morning air.

"Mr. Potter—Harry—we both know how many deaths you feel weighing down upon your shoulders. How many people you feel died needlessly because of your interference. You need add no more shame to that list."

If sympathy were galleons, this woman would be begging in the streets.

Harry was no longer coughing. Now he was watching one of his pillows beginning to rip itself apart: a physical manifestation of his famous temper.

Finally, he submitted through clenched teeth, "Fine."

"Are you sure?" the voice was mocking him. "We wouldn't want to force you to do this against your will..." The woman laughed again.

Harry took a deep breath. "Yes."

"Good. Now—" he heard the woman clap twice, "—we will sign this contract."

Harry found himself in a white room. A blurred figure in the vague shape of a tall—a very tall—shapely woman stood before him. Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes. The female stayed the same.

"Look down," she commanded. Harry's head bent southwards, not entirely of its own will. He saw a pearly white paper entitled

"Fitzmigonatell." Harry was confused, "Fitzmigonatell?"

The woman seemed impatient, "Well we had to call it something. Here you go."

A pen appeared out of thin air. Harry was in awe.

"How did you do that?" he stuttered. The girl hadn't even waved her wand.

"Practice. Come come, now. Sign away."

Harry attempted to read the text itself, but it wavered and swayed before his tired eyes. He shook his head, feeling dizzy.

"Don't try to read it," Now the figure seemed angry and anxious, as if she were doing something she wasn't supposed to. "Just sign!"

Harry's hand began moving towards the paper, despite his best efforts to hold it back. He wrote out a curly, scriptive H. Then an A. Than an

R. Letter by letter he laboriously spelled out his signature, until finally the little line beside the 'x' was no longer blank. The woman chuckled eerily.

"Good job, Mr. Potter," she cooed condescendingly, as if congratulating a small child on his first trip to the loo. Then abruptly, she clapped twice. The white walls dissolved, and Harry was sitting on his snowy white comforter once more.

"Work begins promptly at 7:00 AM tomorrow, Mr. Potter. We will provide the necessary transportation, by means of the third trashcan on the left. Don't be late."

And with that the mysterious female hung up, leaving Harry quite alone on his bed, the afternoon sunlight leaking in through the wide open window and onto his face.


End file.
